


Aftermath

by BethAlex



Series: Nanda Parbat [2]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Gen, spoilers for episode 3x15
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-25
Updated: 2015-02-25
Packaged: 2018-03-15 01:34:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3433130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BethAlex/pseuds/BethAlex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malcolm Merlyn has a restless night after returning from Nanda Parbat, where he was tortured by Ra's al Ghul.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DieAstra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DieAstra/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Back](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3429791) by [DieAstra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DieAstra/pseuds/DieAstra). 



> I watch Arrow because of John Barrowman. Arrow fanfic? Me? Never. That's what I thought - until I read Astra's story "Back". If you haven't read it, go and read it now. It's brilliant! Also, my story will make more sense if you read her story first. Anyway, her Malcolm wouldn't leave me alone, so here's the result... the man can be quite persuasive. (Or one could say that he knows how to get inside your head...)

Home, sweet home. Finally. Malcolm permitted himself a small sigh.

After parting ways with Oliver and Diggle, Malcolm had taken a taxi into town, and then switched cars to go back to the airport. Another taxi back into town, and yet another taxi into the quarter where he had one of his hide-outs. Not straight into his street, of course. He had paid the driver in front of a modest little bungalow, and waited for the car to pull around the corner. He had kept his eyes on the street for long moments, looking for something unusual. Or for something that should be there and wasn’t. Anything out of the ordinary. Nothing. 

Quickly, Malcolm had ducked into the bungalow’s small garden, swiftly vanishing into the bushes lining the fence. At the back, there was a hidden entrance into his own grounds. Malcolm had crept through, warily, cautiously.

Entering his property, Malcolm had stood still, listening, waiting. He had always been a patient man, a man who knew how to bide his time. And right now, patience was vitally important.

A bird sang a few lilting notes, rustling about for food; other than that, it was silent. The noise of the city was distant, just a hum that did not intrude. Malcolm had stood, quietly, for a long time. When he did move, he had done it so smoothly that it did not disturb the busy bird.

Malcolm had entered the house through the basement, swiftly moving past storage rooms and archives. At the end of the corridor, he had moved into the shadows behind a suit of armor. 

And here he was. His feet hurt, and his aching back felt damp. Malcolm ignored the discomfort and concentrated. Listening, just listening. A creak from the pipes, a groan from a window pane. Other than that, the house was eerily silent. Good. It would appear he was alone.

Malcolm laid his hand against the indentation in the brick that only he knew was there. A panel slid open, allowing a slender man access to the room beyond. Without sound, Malcolm slipped through. The panel shut again, and Malcolm released the breath he had been holding. Quickly, he armed himself. Three knives, and one extra to tuck inside a shoe. His favorite drug, Votura. You just never knew when you needed somebody to forget something. Bow and arrows, of course. This time, the sigh was one of satisfaction. Now he felt safe. Well, as safe as it was possible for one Malcolm Merlyn to be.

All these wrong decisions, the miscalculations. His wife, dead. The first, fatal decision. Why had he turned off the damn phone, deeming work more important than his family? His son, first alienated, then killed. Now, Thea. Was the damage irreparable? He refused to believe that. He did love that girl, more than he cared to admit even to himself. She was strong, beautiful, intelligent. So much like Moira.

Malcolm sighed again. He must be even more exhausted than he had thought. There was no room for these thoughts, they had no purpose. 

Rest. He needed rest. But first, he would have to see to his wounds. Weapons safely in place, Malcolm approached another door. Flicking a switch, a small screen silently filled with bluish light. The corridor outside. Empty. Malcolm palmed the panel that opened the door for him – and only for him. Safety precautions had become second nature a long time ago.

He slid into the corridor, and soundlessly made his way to the upper levels. In a storage room next to the kitchen, he hid in the shadows, activating another view screen. Cameras showed every single room of the house, leaving no space for an intruder to hide. Efficiently, Malcolm made sure that he was indeed alone in the house. Next, he reset all the codes that opened doors or windows. He could not afford to grant Thea access to the house, the silly girl would try to kill him herself, now that Ra’s al Ghul had failed. He occasionally let her win their contests to keep her motivated, but she was no match for him. Of course not. She had trained for months, but he had decades of experience. It was better she never saw the true extent of his abilities. He wondered whether Oliver had ever admitted to anybody just how often he had met defeat at his hands. If Thea knew, she knew to be careful. Then again, she was headstrong, and often acted before she thought. Much like Tommy.

What was the matter with him, standing here daydreaming? Annoyed with his wool-gathering, Malcolm quickly opened a can of soup, drinking it down without bothering to heat it up first. He filled bottled water into the mixer, adding a variety of herbs and vitamin pills. He downed the foul-tasting concoction in a few hasty gulps, aware that his body needed the boost. 

Standing in the dim hall, he eyed the staircase with some dismay. Why did he like sweeping staircases? They were difficult to navigate when you were tired. But today, he was exhausted, and with his blistered feet, the damn marble stairs would be hellish. Still, there was nothing for it. He didn’t mind crawling around in a cell when it served to make unseen guards believe he was weaker than he actually was. But he’d be damned if he crept up those stairs on his knees in his own house. No way. He would walk, and that was that.

Determined, Malcolm gritted his teeth and began the climb. Now that he had nothing else to concentrate on, each step sent fire right up into his hips. His shoulders burnt, and the left wrist felt hot. Well, he had had to snap it back into place after his idiot guards had dislocated it a while back. He would have to rest his hand for a while. Really, it felt as if he had brought back some of Ra’s’ burning coals for himself. Malcolm made a face at the observation and took a deep breath. Just a few more steps and he’d be near his bedroom. He really needed to rest now, his vision was becoming distorted. Maybe he should have slept on the plane. Yeah, right. Sleep like a baby, with Arrow and his sidekick watching over him. A likely scenario.

At long last, the summit. Wearily, his exhaustion finally closing in on him, Malcolm entered his sanctuary. He locked the door, blocking it with the wooden chair that sat right next to the door for that very purpose. The windows were barred, so he opened one of them for a much needed breath of fresh air. Keeping one knife with him, he placed the others next to his pillow and set bow and arrow so that he could easily reach them.

Then, he moved into the bathroom. Pulling off the ill-fitting shoes, Malcolm suppressed his grunt. If you gave in to the pain just once, you would do it again. It was a luxury he could not afford. Grimly, he peeled off the blood-soaked socks. Sitting on the floor, he assessed the damage. Burns, of course. First degree, and second. Ra’s had been so very careful, there were no third degree burns; and even the second degree burns would heal without scarring. That was a relief. 

Satisfied, Malcolm stood, ignoring the resulting pain. Impatiently, he got rid of the smelly trousers – didn’t these people wash? Next, the equally smelly shirt. It was sticking to his open wounds. 

He wondered whether Ra’s had been aware of the games the guards played with him, had he possibly condoned them? Never mind. He was alive, and Ra’s was finally dead. Hopefully for good. At least four of the men who had so enjoyed torturing him had died a sudden but very painful death in that hall. Malcolm smirked. Never toy with a prisoner, unless you are certain he will die at your hands. Ra’s really should have followed his own advice! 

After long moments of agony, the shirt separated from his body with a wet sound. Malcolm didn’t wince as fresh scabs were torn off, the wounds beginning to bleed again.

He stood between two mirrors, studying his back with his usual detachment. Cigarette burns and whiplash injuries. More scars, but no reason to see a doctor. That stolen bath in the Lazarus Pit a few years ago had been a good idea. At least his body was still willing to heal, and heal reasonably quickly. It had definitely been worth taking the risk. 

Malcolm stepped into the shower. The warm water cleaned the wounds sufficiently, as he was not able to reach them. His healing lotion would do the rest. Malcolm washed the grime out of his hair – how he hated having dirty hair! – and then used copious amounts of soap to cleanse himself. The soap acted as disinfectant. Much better. Finally satisfied, he stepped out of the shower, not bothering to dry himself off. 

He had put together his own healing lotion, and as always, he had plenty of it on hand. He poured a liberal amount down over his back, reveling in the soothing effect. Stretching cautiously, he moved back into the bedroom. Finally sitting down on the bed, he then worked the healing salve into his feet.

Contentedly, he stretched out and pulled the cover over himself. He could finally get some rest. Closing his eyes, Malcolm fell asleep almost instantly.

He did not know what had woken him, but he threw two knives in quick succession before his eyes were even fully open, at the same time sliding off the bed. Arrows were useless at close quarters, but he had one more knife and the dagger that always rested underneath his pillow. His attackers had their work cut out for them.

“Shit, Malcolm. It’s me, Oliver.” 

As if he hadn’t recognized him as soon as he had spoken the first word. Malcolm rolled his eyes and silently moved along the wall. How stupid was this kid, really? At least he had known enough to avoid the knives.

“Where are you, under the bed,” Oliver asked, raising his hands. Malcolm was just able to make out the gesture in the dim lighting.

Creeping up on Oliver from behind, Malcolm whispered, “Now, that would be stupid, wouldn’t it? No room to maneuver under the bed.”

Oliver jumped, and Malcolm grinned to himself. 

“I came here to help,” Oliver said. “Not much point getting you out of Nanda Parbat if I wanted to kill you as soon as we got home.”

Malcolm had already checked the younger man for weapons, but all he had found was a flask filled with something liquid. Poison? Swiftly, he moved away again. Oliver wasn’t all that bad at hand-to-hand combat.

“So why not ring the doorbell,” Malcolm said mildly, standing in the corner between window and wall. Had the young fool come alone?

“How do you do that, your feet must be killing you,” Oliver could not keep a note of admiration from his voice, and Malcolm smiled.

“Doorbell,” Malcolm insisted.

“I thought you were asleep,” Oliver said, as if that was an explanation.

Malcolm frowned. “I have no patience for your games, Oliver. What is it you want?”

“I have these herbs…” Oliver began, then interrupted himself. “Look, can we turn on the light?”

“I can see you just fine, and if you can’t see me, more fool you.” Malcolm knew he sounded cold, but he didn’t appreciate people creeping up on him at the best of times. This was not a good time to start off with. How, how, how had Oliver managed to get into the house? 

Oliver swallowed audibly. “And here I thought I was doing you a favor. Look, Malcolm, I’m really here to help. I brought some of my healing potion; you’ll feel better in no time.” 

Startled, Malcolm laughed. “What makes you think I need it? What makes you think I’d drink it? You’re Thea’s brother. For all I know, it’s not a potion but poison. It’s just one letter, but it’s a huge difference.”

“We came to get you out after Thea had betrayed you to Ra’s,” Oliver insisted. “Yes, I admit you piss me off. But I don’t want you dead.” 

Malcolm had moved nearer the bed. “What do you want, Oliver?”

Oliver sighed, turning in the direction of his voice. “I’m tired, Malcolm. Can we stop this please, and talk? Talk with the light on and a drink maybe?”

Malcolm hesitated. Normally, he’d keep up the game, but he was tired, too. And yes, his damn feet did hurt. He thought for a moment. Could he take Oliver? Yes. If he had to. He’d prefer not to, but still. Shielding his eyes by lowering his lashes, he flicked the switch, flooding the room with light. 

Oliver swore, clapping his hands to his eyes. “Damn it, Malcolm, there was no need for that.” 

Blinking, Oliver looked up, rolling his eyes when he realized there was an arrow pointing at his throat. “Malcolm…” 

“Sit down, Oliver, hands where I can see them. You will answer a few questions, and I’ll decide where we go from there. First, how did you get in?”

“Felicity,” Oliver said reluctantly, sitting in the easy chair next to the window. “We knew you’d change your codes, so she kept an eye on you.”

Felicity would have to die; the woman was beginning to get on his nerves. 

“How did you get into my bedroom?”

“Felicity. She had the original blueprints for this place, and saw there is a secret door in your bathroom.” 

Felicity was as good as dead. Of course he wouldn’t want Oliver to know who had killed her, so that required some planning. But at least now he knew what had woken him – the cooler air from the corridor. He had known it would provide a warning, therefore all the corridors remained unheated even in winter. He would have to move to a location even Felicity could not find. Another inconvenience.

“And what were you planning on doing here,” Malcolm asked his next question.

“As I said, the potion,” Oliver shrugged.

Malcolm shook his head. “What, did you think you could pour it down my throat without me noticing?”

Oliver frowned. “No. I was being an idiot. I could’ve buzzed the door, but I wanted to save you the trip down the stairs. Fuck, Malcolm, I saw what Ra’s was doing to you. I can’t imagine how you managed to get up to the hall without giving yourself away, and you were keeping up with Diggle and myself when we were running out of there as if you were unhurt. How do you even do that?”

Malcolm lifted a sardonic eyebrow. “If you don’t know, you don’t deserve to know. So, what about that potion?”

“It’s effective. Helps you heal, much faster than modern medicine. Much more effective, I brought you some,” Oliver said. “Can I move my left hand into my pocket to get it out?” 

“You mean this potion?” Malcolm jutted his chin at the flask now sitting on his pillow.

“Al Sa-her,” Oliver said, startled. “I keep forgetting they call you the Magician. How did you do that?” 

Malcolm shrugged, ignoring the pain that shot all the way into his hand. “I might be prepared to trust you, Oliver. I do not trust Thea, or Felicity. They might have messed with it.”

Oliver sighed. “They wouldn’t. We never know when we need it. There’s no time to double-check, you grab the first flask that comes to hand. Having said that, this particular flask was in my safe, which they have no access to.” 

Incredulous, Malcolm stared at Oliver. “You actually believe what you are saying? Felicity is a dangerously skilled hacker; she could probably get into your safe in moments.”

“Maybe she could. But she wouldn’t,” Oliver insisted. “I trust Felicity. I trust Thea. I trust every single member of my team.”

Taking a deep breath, Malcolm shook his head. “Felicity is helping Ray with his new fancy super-power suit. Soon, Starling City will be overrun with superheroes. Do you really think they will all work together for the common good?”

“I have to believe that,” Oliver sighed. “The League was working together.”

Malcolm snorted. “Because they were afraid of their leader. So afraid that friend turned against friend, like Maseo turned against you.” 

“Maseo had no choice,” Oliver rubbed his eyes. “Look, can we not make this about Starling City, or the sins of the past? I came here with a peace offering, Malcolm, believe it or not.”

“Not.” Malcolm shrugged, his shoulders twinging painfully. “I know you don’t want to hear it, Oliver. I’m going to tell you anyway, and one day, you will remember what I said. A team needs a leader. The stronger the single members of the team, the stronger the leader has to be. Sometimes, said leader has to make unpopular decisions. Decisions the team doesn’t agree with, decisions the team doesn’t understand. If you can’t be that kind of leader, somebody else will move in and lead your team for you. They might lead in a direction you don’t like.”

Oliver sighed. “Right now, I’m more concerned with the League. You may have killed Ra’s, but Nyssa is still out there. She will come after you, she will come after Thea.” 

Malcolm lifted his chin. “Don’t be a fool, Oliver. Nyssa will come after all of us, after what we did.”

“Why did you kill so many of them,” Oliver asked. “Don’t you feel any remorse?”

“No,” Malcolm said coldly. “Do you expect me to feel remorse for a bunch of killers and torturers? I once gave my word that I would follow the code of the League, but that code has since been perverted. The longer Ra’s led, the more power-hungry he became. What did he use his wealth and influence for? Death, destruction. The same things you hold against me.” 

“You can’t balance one evil against another,” Oliver said wearily. “This is not a discussion we should have when we’re both tired and frustrated. How can I convince you to take the potion?”

“You can’t,” Malcolm said derisively. 

Oliver rubbed his eyes again, looking desperate. Malcolm was actually beginning to feel a little sorry for him. 

“Why is it so important to you that I drink your potion,” Malcolm asked softly.

“I’ve seen what they were doing to you. We were watching for a while, to see whether the guards would change or whatever. I’ve seen Ra’s staring at you from the shadows, with such loathing, so much satisfaction… I just want to put something right,” Oliver sighed.

“You are but one man, Oliver. You cannot put right the wrongs of the world,” Malcolm shook his head. 

Oliver looked at him, the same darkness in his eyes Malcolm had spotted earlier in Nanda Parbat. “If I don’t try, what’s the point in it all? What’s the point in any of the things we do? We fight, we struggle – and at the end of the day, it amounts to nothing.”

Surprising himself, Malcolm got ready to put down the bow. He had pointed the arrow at Oliver this whole time, but now he lowered it.

“How foolish, Oliver. You need to learn to govern your emotions, lest they govern you.”

“Is that what you do, Malcolm? Compartmentalize? Everything in neat little boxes?”

“I haven’t always been like this,” Malcolm said quietly. “One learns to deal with things.” 

“I admire you,” Oliver admitted, “But I don’t want to be like you.”

Malcolm studied the younger man for a moment, then sighed and got to his feet. He moved into the dressing room and slipped into a pair of faded jeans. Walking back into the bedroom, he motioned to Oliver. “I think we should have that drink you mentioned earlier.”

Oliver jumped up, moving the chair away from the door. “You are alone in the house, yet you put the chair there?”

“Much good it did me,” Malcolm grumbled good-naturedly, opening the door to his office. He waved Oliver into a chair and got a bottle of Scotch and two glasses from the liquor cabinet. Pouring generous amounts, he handed a glass to Oliver.

“Your health,” Oliver said tiredly, raising the glass in a toast.

Malcolm raised his glass, waiting until Oliver had taken a healthy gulp before sipping his drink.

Waiting for the implications to sink in, Malcolm watched the other man carefully. Oliver did look exhausted, there were black circles under his eyes, and the darkness was dancing in them even now. As for realization - nothing. 

Malcolm sighed. “Oliver. You’re dead, you know that, right?” 

“Not dead,” Oliver muttered. “Potion in your bedroom.”

“You’d never make it,” Malcolm said evenly.

“Where are you keeping a weapon, you’re not even wearing socks,” Oliver protested. 

Malcolm rolled his eyes. “My office. Everything can be used as a weapon, you should know that.”

“Please don’t make me fight you,” Oliver sighed. “I’m really dead tired.”

“Tired will get you dead. What are you doing, letting down your guard like that? Are you suicidal?”

“Felicity doesn’t want me to love her,” Oliver bit his lip. 

Good, Malcolm thought. The woman is brilliant. Annoying, but brilliant. Out loud, he said, “I’m sorry to hear that.” He would wonder about Oliver’s non-sequitur later. Maybe it was the fatigue talking.

Oliver smirked. “Liar. You don’t like Felicity.”

“I like you,” Malcolm replied, amused.

“But you don’t trust me.”

“No. I don’t.” 

“I want your trust. I need your trust. What do I need to do to earn it,” Oliver sat forward, face open and earnest.

Damn. Malcolm wanted to believe him. Wanted to trust. But he hadn’t trusted anybody in so long… people always ended up betraying you. That was something he had had to learn the hard way. But he could pretend. You never knew where this new alliance might lead. He’d have to be cautious, Oliver was observant. Yet, it might be worth it.

“I don’t know, Oliver. I don’t trust easily, not anymore.” Always best to mask a lie with the truth.

Oliver nodded. “Small steps. For now, just a drink – among friends?”

Friends? Robert had been his friend. And where had that taken them? Still. Maybe his son had more sense than Robert had had?

Malcolm lifted his glass. “Friends, Oliver.”


End file.
